


boys and their toys

by darkrosaleen



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Breathplay, Horror, M/M, Non-Consensual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-10
Updated: 2015-02-10
Packaged: 2018-03-11 10:48:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3324713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkrosaleen/pseuds/darkrosaleen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kavinsky dreams himself a Ronan who can't say no. Turns out, hearing them say no is the best part.</p>
            </blockquote>





	boys and their toys

**Author's Note:**

> Please note that this fic is marked CNTW and tagged for advertisement purposes only. 
> 
> Big thank you to Isis, beta and cheerleader extraordinaire.

Kavinsky jerked awake and heard retching next to him. Lynch was doubled over the back of the couch, coughing like he'd never breathed in smoke before.

It was possible he hadn’t. Kavinsky had taken him from the forest, where everything was as green and unspoiled as paradise. 

Kavinsky picked up a bottle of vodka from the floor and held it out to Lynch. He had to push it against Lynch's palm before he grasped the bottle and drank. 

"So, Grey Goose isn't too rough for your faggot throat.” Lynch kept chugging, vodka dribbling down the side of his jaw. Kavinsky's dick pulsed.

"Stop." Lynch stopped swallowing, but it took him a second to lower the bottle, and more vodka poured all over his shirt. His slack jaw and wet lips made Kavinsky shudder with desire. 

The real Lynch had lightning fast reflexes—he had to, the things he did with that pretty little BMW. But Kavinsky's abilities were limited to the physical. He could dream Lynch's wild eyebrows, his twice-broken nose, the intricate knots of his tattoo, but the fire behind his eyes was out of Kavinsky's grasp. 

Like fucking always.

With a growl, Kavinsky climbed on top of Lynch and twisted his hands above his head. Lynch just stared at him with vacant blue eyes. He didn't even flinch.

"You fucking like that, huh?" Kavinsky started grinding his hips, riding the thick bulge in Lynch's jeans. Lynch wasn't hard; he might not be able to get hard. Wouldn't that be a fucking waste. "You want my cock, faggot?" 

He dug his nails into Lynch's wrists. Lynch just fucking _sat_ there, staring and staring until Kavinsky's nails punctured his skin. Lynch's breath finally hitched, and his wrists pulled against Kavinsky's grip, not strong enough to be anything other than a reflex.

For the first time that night, Kavinsky felt his heart speed up.

He stood up and took off his belt. "Pants off." It was hard to tell how much Lynch understood, but he could clearly take orders. Lynch wriggled out of his jeans and sat back on the couch. His cock rested against his thigh, long and heavy and still soft. His breathing was slow and even, like he was asleep.

It made Kavinsky want to rip his throat out.

"Spread your legs." Kavinsky reached down and stroked himself. "I want to see that tight hole." 

Lynch's legs went up in the air. His skin was almost paper-white, and Kavinsky’s fingers slipped easily into his ass, the muscle soft and barely tensed around the intrusion. It was like fingerfucking a corpse.

Kavinsky choked on a moan.

“Gonna fucking ruin you,” he growled. He pinned Lynch’s thighs against his chest and pushed into him. “Gonna fuck your ass until it bleeds.” Even limp and unresponsive like this, Lynch was tighter than Kavinsky’s hand, tighter than Proko’s slack, drooling mouth had been the first time Kavinsky tried fucking it. It took months of training before Proko could take his cock without vomiting, and Kavinsky’s hips stuttered when he remembered the dull, trusting look in Proko’s eyes when he had first learned to suck.

Lynch’s eyes were totally blank, but the color was perfect, that pale electric blue that made Kavinsky’s gut twist every time Lynch glared at him. Kavinsky knew that blank look, knew it meant that this Lynch would never speak or think or move on his own. He was a blow-up doll with a pulse.

Suddenly, Kavinsky was furious. He let go of Lynch’s leg and wrapped a hand around his neck. Lynch’s pulse was so slow and calm that he couldn’t even find it. Kavinsky squeezed until he felt it thudding against his palm, and then he squeezed harder. 

Lynch dragged in a heavy, rasping breath. Kavinsky’s hips jerked. He kept a hand wrapped tight around Lynch’s throat, angling his hips to fuck in deeper. It made every breath scrape audibly out of Lynch’s throat, and the sound pushed Kavinsky closer to the edge than fake porno moaning ever could. 

The harder he fucked Lynch, the harder he squeezed. Lynch was finally coming to life under his hands, twisting and thrashing and clawing at his constricted throat. If Kavinsky pressed against his windpipe at the right angle, Lynch’s choked breathing almost sounded like terrified gasps.

Lynch was finally getting hard, too. That made Kavinsky imagine that it was the real Lynch struggling under him, eyes on fire, spitting curses from his raw, ruined throat. The real Lynch would fight like a trapped animal, muscles rippling under Kavinsky’s hands. Maybe he’d be strong enough to flip them over and wrap his own hand around Kavinsky’s throat, squeeze and squeeze until Kavinsky lit up like a firework.

Kavinsky came so hard his vision blurred. 

He slumped on top of Lynch to catch his breath. Lynch’s body was still twitching, and he was taking rough, stuttering breaths, gasping like a beached fish. 

Kavinsky walked around to the back of the couch. He laid his forearm flush against Lynch’s collarbone, feeling Lynch’s powerful lungs expanding and contracting. Kavinsky’s arm barely spanned the width of Lynch’s shoulders, and he let himself take a moment to appreciate the feel of all that bulk pressing against him. Celtic knots snaked over Lynch’s shoulders, the ink as slick and shiny as oil. Kavinsky pressed his fingers against it and was surprised that it just felt like skin, warm and a little damp with sweat. 

Kavinsky slid the fingers of his other hand through Lynch’s cropped hair, close to the warmth of his scalp. Standing behind him, Kavinsky could imagine that if he turned Lynch’s head he’d see those blue eyes staring into his, wide with fear instead of emptiness. 

He ran his hand over Lynch’s head one last time, like stroking a lover or a scared child. Then he snapped Lynch’s neck. 

Lynch’s body slid to the floor. His neck was bent at a hard angle so that his eyes were looking towards the ceiling. Somehow, his blank eyes were easier to look at when he wasn’t breathing. He made a pretty corpse, pale skin and dark feathery lashes and bruises ringing his throat. 

Kavinsky knelt on the floor and closed Lynch’s eyes, kissing each of them in turn. Then he reached for his phone and shot a text to Proko. 

_ready. bring the gasoline._

**Author's Note:**

> I posted a couple lines of this to FFA months ago, and someone replied that Kavinsky + Ronan + alcohol sounded like a bad idea in progress.
> 
> Nonny, you had _no idea._


End file.
